The One Who Calls Him Beautiful
by DetrimentalHabitsPt4
Summary: There aren't many who can say that and truly mean it. He is one of the few who can.


_AN: Well hey! This is a one-time thing, written as a Christmas present for a friend of mine. She likes this pairing. I am merely going to keep my mouth shut. ;) _

He's beautiful, and everybody knows it.

They all see it. Dean's hair, dark on some days and rose-gold on others, looks soft to the touch and many can testify, up to a point, of course. His eyes are unlike any other, vibrantly so, in varying hues and shades of green that attract as fast as they turn down. They see his smiles, the flirtatious ones, the inviting ones, the destructive ones, all his changing moods and shifting masks that they never look beyond. They see him, and they know it.

But nobody will ever know it as well as Sam does.

Nobody will ever know exactly how soft Dean's hair is, how light it gets in the summer or how dark it turns in the winter. They will never know that his eyes aren't just an expressive, mysterious green, that the color has a specific name, or that it's mixed in with brown and hazel and shimmering flecks of radiant gold all gleaming with love and hatred and so much pain. They will never know the meanings behind his numerous types of smiles, the many stories behind the tears they'll never see. But Sam sees it, and Sam knows it all, because he's been there.

He's been there to run his fingers through Dean's hair and know that it's softer and lighter than anything on this earth. Sam likes to say it feels like angel feathers, even though Dean insists that angels aren't real. Sam thinks they are. He has one, after all. What else could his brother possible be?

He's been there to watch his hair turn almost golden in the sunlight, to see the strange, dusky shades it takes under the glow of streetlamps shining through rain-spattered car windows. He knows that Dean loves the summer but can't stand it when the blond highlights start to show, and that he likewise hates winter but seems to appreciate the brunet tones that he achieves in that season.

He's been there to stare into Dean's ever-shifting eyes, to watch the colors bleed into compounds and glorious metallics. Sam's favorite is when they're standing outside and the irises seem to take on the colors of the world around them.

He's been there to cause the pain reflected in those ethereal depths. He's felt the hatred that sparks flares down his spine and through his heart; he's returned the unvoiced love hidden behind all those layers and all that armor. He can read Dean, he knows him, and no one else can claim that power.

Oh yes, there have been women in the past. There were the strong ones who rebuffed him on the first offer, the weak ones who held him tightly, gripping at his back with needy fingers and sharp, painted nails. Dean has entertained blonde ones with no shame, brunette ones with no degree, as well as the occasional talented redhead or raven-haired beauty.

Sam has seen all of it.

He's seen the scores of one-night stands, the defiled motel beds, the questionable upholstery replacements for the Impala's backseat. There's been lighthearted banter, threatened virility, and verging on obscene battles of wills, but never anything important. Nothing unforgettable. Nothing meaningful. Not until now.

Not until its Dean on the bed, sheets twisted up around him as he pants, fingers gripping Sam's broad shoulders, clutching his arms, dragging up and down the rippling muscles of his back. Not until it's their mouths melded together in a type of bliss beyond all understanding, beyond caring. Unless it's _them_, it has no meaning, no purpose in the greater parts of their lives. It's just another hunt, another hookup, another long, exhausting, fruitless day in their lives.

But in those rare little moments, those potent, stolen seconds where it's just the two of them and no one else, nothing to do, no place to be, that's where their lives are. That's where everything matters, the lack of space between them, their shared breaths growing sharper by the second, the soft brushes, the light touches, and the quick, whispered words in the stifling heat of the room.

The passionate kisses, the friction-seeking movements, the sparks of want and desire and tenderness and so many other thoughts all rolled up into one painful lump of feeling, a wave of understanding, an unbelievable _rush_ of emotions that can't be contained, can only be acted upon.

And after, when they lay facing each other, foreheads touching, bodies curved towards each other like parentheses, Dean can only watch in awe as a breathless smile of exaltation breaks out across Sam's face.

Because _that_ is something about _Sam_ that nobody will ever know as well as he does. Because Dean's the only one who can call him beautiful.


End file.
